The wind in this new land cut like razors.
Dry. Sharp. Full of whispers that didn't belong to anything human.
It carried a weight of old blood and broken laws—saturated with the scent of beasts, rusted steel, and something older still. Something buried too deep to name.
Marcel stepped forward, eyes narrowed against the blinding sun. Behind him walked Tarin, Lira, and Veyla, with Emberjaw trotting close, ever watchful. They had no map. No direction. No sense of where—or what—they had landed in.
Only Veyla had said a word, voice quiet and uncertain:
"Avastin. That's what this place is called."
The name settled over them like a cold shroud.
Avastin. The Eighth Domain.
A place of ruin and chaos, whispered about in hushed tones during old war briefings and hidden scrolls. Veyla only knew fragments—rumors of three massive empires locked in eternal war, of corruption so deep even the soil bled treachery. And the Wastelands, ruled not by kings but predators draped in crowns of bone.
Marcel's knuckles tightened as he scanned the jagged terrain. "You're sure?"
"I'm not sure of anything," she replied. "Only that everything here wants us dead."
---
The Uncharted Land — Three Days Ago
The terrain had been a nightmare. Caverns lined with twisted roots that moved when you slept. Fields where illusions mimicked familiar voices. They'd been stalked by creatures without names—beasts with too many limbs, or none at all, that bled shadows instead of blood.
Food was scarce. Water was worse. The mana was unstable—hostile even. Spells faltered. Weapons shattered under strain.
Their survival came down to sheer grit.
Marcel nearly lost himself to the shard more than once—its corruption whispering promises of power when his body begged to give in. It was only Veyla's timely guidance, and Tarin's brutal sense of direction, that kept them from wandering into the deeper pits of the unknown.
They fought. They ran. They hid.
They endured.
---
Now, they stood atop a steep ridge, looking down on what might have been their first glimpse of sanctuary—or another trap.
A city.
It wasn't part of the grand empires Veyla had mentioned. No towering castles or imperial banners. This place was jagged, scarred—built from scrap, beast bone, and blackened stone. Smoke rose from forges. Screams echoed from a fighting pit carved into the cliffs.
A fortress city on the edge of survival.
"Looks like a stronghold in the Wastelands," Veyla muttered, narrowing her eyes. "One of the smaller ones. No real laws. Just whoever's strongest."
Tarin lowered his blade. "What are the chances they'll welcome strangers?"
Lira scoffed, bandaging a wound on her leg. "Depends. How much blood are we willing to give for a bed?"
Marcel exhaled slowly. "Let's find out."
---
At the City Gates
The gate guard was huge—his armor mismatched, his face hidden beneath a rusted helm marked with crimson stripes. He held a jagged polearm and spoke with a voice that sounded like gravel grinding against steel.
"Name your reason, outsiders. Speak fast."
"We seek shelter," Marcel said. "Nothing more."
The guard tilted his head. "That's worth a toll. Or a duel."
Tarin stepped forward, blade ready.
But Veyla raised a hand. "We'll pay." She tossed a bundle of beast fangs and cracked mana shards.
The guard examined them, grunted, then stepped aside. "Welcome to Ashveil. Don't get killed."
---
Inside the City — Ashveil
The city was chaos barely disguised as structure.
Banners of old warbands fluttered over rooftops. Fire pits lit alleys filled with traders haggling over weapon oil and beast pelts. Arena bells rang in the distance. No law kept the peace—only the threat of retaliation.
They found shelter in a rundown inn called The Maw, where the beds were hard, but the walls didn't leak—much.
Lira slumped against a post. "I hate to say it... but this is the best thing we've had in days."
Tarin checked his blade. "We need information. Supplies. Allies."
Marcel looked out through the cracked shutters, watching the smoke rise beyond the city walls. "And we need to find the others. The system said they were scattered across the 8th and 9th domains."
Veyla turned toward him, face unreadable. "If they survived."
A long silence.
Then Marcel stood.
"They did," he said quietly. "I know they did. And we'll find them."
But deep in the shadows of Ashveil's lower levels, something stirred.
A figure watched them—hooded, unmoving.
The hunted had arrived.
And the hunters were already in motion.
__________________________________________
Ashveil did not sleep.
When the sun fell beyond the broken peaks of the wasteland, the city stirred to life with a different pulse. One driven by vice, hunger, blood, and smoke.
Fires bloomed in every corner—not for warmth, but for spectacle. Braziers lit alleyways where men gambled their last coin on bone dice and half-rigged cards. Drunken laughter echoed from rooftops. Screams followed soon after. Music, if it could be called that, throbbed like a heartbeat in the walls of the city. It was a place that rewarded predators, and forgot the rest.
Marcel walked the main street of Ashveil with the others, cloaks drawn low to obscure their faces. But no disguise could fully mask the fact they were strangers—and strangers were prey here.
Hookers leaned against chipped stone walls, their eyes calculating. Some were barely dressed, others wore lavish silks dirtied by the dust of the city. They beckoned with whispers and honeyed smiles. A few reached out to brush against Tarin or Marcel in passing, sizing them up with every glance.
Drunken men staggered between stalls and shadows, some groping at passing women with no fear of consequence. Lira moved closer to Veyla, both of them casting cold glares that should've been enough to ward off the worst. But it only drew more attention.
"You two lost?" slurred a bald man with broken teeth and a jagged scar across his nose. He stumbled into their path, reeking of sour wine. "C'mon, sweet thing, let's make you feel welcome."
Veyla didn't speak. She just twisted his wrist until he screamed, then shoved him aside with a look that promised death.
No one interfered.
In Ashveil, everyone fought their own battles.
---
The group finally arrived at The Maw.
The inn was a relic from a bloodier age—a squat, three-story structure built from salvaged war-timber and beastbone. The front door had a jagged bite mark carved into it, as if some massive predator had once tried to chew its way in. The name came from the building's history: centuries ago, it had been a den for gladiators and pitfighters, where losers were tossed into an actual pit beneath the floor and left for the beasts.
Now, it served as neutral ground. A place where blades were sheathed at the door—usually.
Inside, the common room was dimly lit, filled with the scent of pipe smoke, sour ale, and sweat. A barkeep with one arm and a facial burn stood behind the counter, eyeing newcomers with suspicion. A large ogre-like man lounged near the hearth with a giant club beside him—the bouncer, no doubt. At least two shadowed figures sat in the corners, watching everyone who entered without blinking.
"No fights unless you want to feed the floor," the barkeep growled. "One gold per head. Extra if you want beds that don't itch."
Marcel tossed five coins onto the counter. "No trouble from us. Just rest."
The man grunted, then waved them to a stairwell lined with flickering red lanterns.
---
Later that night, the group sat in a private booth off the side of the common room. Tarin nursed a drink. Lira sharpened her daggers. Veyla watched the entrance, her eyes hard.
Marcel leaned forward, voice low. "We made it to Ashveil. Now we gather intel, stock up, and prepare to move. This place isn't safe, not for long."
Veyla nodded. "We should avoid drawing attention. Too many predators here. And not just the ones you can see."
As if on cue, a scream rose from outside—a shriek of rage and pain.
A death match had begun.
In the lower levels of the city, blood rings operated without law or mercy. Warriors fought for gold, favor, or survival. Losers were left in pieces. The crowd cheered louder for brutality than for skill.
Ashveil wasn't a city. It was a crucible.
And if they weren't careful, it would eat them alive.
--------------------------------
A/N
Marcel and his team in the tournament at Mireholt were rewarded before the war. That's how the could afford "The Maw".